


fall and rise

by misura



Category: The Hunt for Red October (1990)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21720505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Mancuso caught him before he fell - and that was probably a major naval faux pas, Jack thought: to swoon and force a captain to choose between catching you and letting you fall to the deck.
Relationships: Bart Mancuso/Jack Ryan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	fall and rise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/gifts).



Mancuso caught him before he fell - and that was probably a major naval faux pas, Jack thought: to swoon and force a captain to choose between catching you and letting you fall to the deck, but his legs simply hadn't been able to go it anymore.

He'd have to apologize later, also for getting blood all over Mancuso's uniform.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Mancuso was holding him upright now, braced against all of Jack's weight trying to drag him down. There was some shouting going on, maybe in response to Jack's lack of respect for Mancuso's rank. "Sorry. Sorry."

Jack hadn't thought his voice was still strong enough to be heard over everything else that was going on, but it turned out it had been, or maybe Mancuso simply had excellent hearing, because he said, "Shut the fuck up," in a tone that definitely meant trouble.

Jack shut up. He'd have liked to do more, but he didn't think trying to stand on his own again would work and anyway, if he was going to get court-martialled for fainting, he might as well get his money's worth. It felt surprisingly good to be held, to be able to let someone else do all the heavy lifting for a while.

"Jesus, Ryan," Mancuso said. One of his hands was moving, rubbing comforting circles on Jack's back.

Jack decided that was probably an accident, or instinct or something, especially since Mancuso started yelling again right after. Jack couldn't make out the exact words, but that was all right, probably; whatever orders Mancuso was giving couldn't be for him, even Mancuso wouldn't expect that much from him.

Not, admittedly, that expecting Jack not to get himself shot and faint in his arms had been that high or unreasonable an expectation. Bad luck, was all. Next time, Jack promised himself, he really was going to write a memo. ( _No, you won't,_ something inside of him said, and he ignored it, because he knew it was true.)

Orders given, Mancuso started talking again at a lower volume - or no, not talking, Jack realized. Cursing. _Swearing like a sailor,_ he thought. _So that old saying's still true._ He'd come across some interesting language in his research, but this was better, this was up, close and personal data gleaned right from the source.

The idea of writing a book or an article on the shift in foul language employed in the navy came and went. It made him want to giggle, except that he worried about pulling something and also, he didn't think Mancuso would like it. The poor guy had already gotten Jack's blood all over his clothes, to say nothing of the bit where he was still the only thing standing between Jack and the floor. He didn't deserve giggling.

"Ryan." Jack wondered if Mancuso was psychic, or if he'd giggled after all, unaware of what he was doing. He didn't feel much of his legs or back anymore right now, which should probably worry him, but right now it came as too much of a relief to really mind. "You hang in there, you hear me."

_I couldn't do anything else even if I wanted to,_ Jack wanted to say, but he didn't think he'd be able to get out all of that. He tried, anyway, and heard himself produce some sounds that definitely couldn't be qualified as human speech.

"Goddamnit, someone go and see what's keeping the doc," Mancuso said.

Jack wanted to help, really he did, but it simply wasn't possible. He hoped Mancuso understood. The mind was willing, but the flesh - the flesh.

"Stay with me, Ryan. Just stay with me," Mancuso told him, and Jack tried to nod, but that made the room spin even more than it already did and anyway, he'd feel so much better if he were simply allowed to lie down and close his eyes, only for a little while, a quick nap.

Mancuso shook him a little. Jack would have told him to be more careful, except that he knew he wouldn't be able to get out those words, either. It was a real problem.

"Goddamnit," Mancuso repeated, as if it were all one word instead of three.

Jack realized he'd buried his hands in Mancuso's uniform, clinging to Mancuso like a drowning man to a buoy. His own fault, then, that Mancuso hadn't put him down on the deck where he could rest yet; all of it, always, his own fault. He should have written a damn memo.

"Ryan. You die on me, and I swear - " Mancuso said, and Jack wanted to reply that Mancuso was swearing already, he'd heard him, some lovely colorful language and it was interesting, wasn't it, how strong language shifted over the ages while some elements stayed the same - though not as interesting, of course, as the progression of strategies and tactics, the way technology and new insights worked together to change people's perceptions of naval warfare and its role in the theater of war.

"About damn time," Mancuso snapped at someone - the doc, Jack assumed, who had probably done the best he could and thus did not deserve getting snapped at. "Sorry," Mancuso added, as if he'd heard Jack's thoughts. "Sorry, it's just - it's Ryan."

Jack didn't know why he should be special in some way, other than in being an outsider, a civilian, practically, an intruder on Mancuso's boat who had gotten shot for his folly in coming here.

"Yes, sir," someone said, and then his hands were being pried open, gently, and there were several people holding his weight, making sure he didn't fall, which made it a bit odd that at the same time, Jack felt the darkness rushing up to meet him, the last thing he saw being the expression on Mancuso's face as Jack let go, let all of it go because the doctor was here.

They were still carrying him when he came back to himself, which suggested he'd been gone only a little while, and the pain was back, and he felt his back and legs again (more or less the same thing, really) and as he looked to his right, he only saw half-familiar strangers, but to the left, there was Mancuso, looking grim and forbidding and thoroughly annoyed.

_Small wonder,_ Jack thought, seeing the state of Mancuso's uniform. He should say something about that, maybe apologize again.

Maybe after he'd taken another nap.

That second nap had been a lot longer than the first one, he decided as he woke up again. He felt less pain, more drugged to the gills, which wasn't great, but he knew it made sense, was probably even good for him, to give his body a rest from feeling bad all the time.

He wasn't on the _Dallas_ anymore, Jack didn't think. He felt a stab of alarm at the realization, at the idea of having left Mancuso behind without another word, a chance to apologize properly or tell him thank you, but then he looked around the room a bit more and there, right next to him, was Mancuso, asleep in a chair, right next to a table with some books and a glass of water on it.

Jack envied him his ability to do that, to sit down and take a nap.

He became aware that his mouth and throat felt very dry, but he didn't want to wake Mancuso by calling for someone, and he didn't think he was strong enough to grab the glass of water himself.

Mancuso opened his eyes, then, and Jack smiled at him, feeling guilty, even if he was pretty sure that he hadn't suddenly turned telepathic or something, capable of waking people up with a thought, simply by wanting them to.

For ten, twelve seconds Mancuso smiled back, but then he seemed to remember the whole ruined-uniform and fainting-on-a-superior-officer bit (though Jack supposed he hadn't really had a place in the chain of command of the _Dallas_ ) and he stopped and said, "Ryan. How do you feel?"

"Better," Jack said, which was true. "I - shouldn't you be with the _Dallas_?"

"Wasn't much left for us to do and besides, you needed a hospital," Mancuso said. He didn't make it sound like an accusation, though Jack suspected it was. "You had us all damn worried, you know."

Jack managed to get a faint S-sound before Mancuso added, "And don't say you're sorry again, that's some damn nonsense. You did good. You did damn good."

One of Mancuso's hands was resting on Jack's shoulder, squeezing softly. He started smiling again a bit, too, but like he wasn't really aware that he was doing it, so Jack didn't smile back, afraid that if he did, Mancuso'd notice it and stop.

"My uh, the woman I once thought I was going to marry works at a hospital," he said.

"Huh," said Mancuso, still squeezing Jack's shoulder. "So what happened there? _If_ you want to talk about it, that is."

Jack shrugged a bit, relieved to discover that didn't hurt until he remembered the painkillers. "Didn't work out. We have a daughter, though." He wondered if that was too personal, but added a, "You?" all the same, because Mancuso had started it.

"No kids," Mancuso said. "Turns out most women aren't really my type."

Jack decided that for 'most', he should probably hear 'all', which was definitely very personal, but also good to know. "So what is your type, then?" he asked, and Mancuso gave him a look and squeezed his shoulder again and said nothing, which Jack supposed was as clear an answer as any.


End file.
